The howling wind in the trees jars him awake every night at 3am, scraggly, leafless branches scratching against the windows and walls of his dirty attic room.
Damn wind! he mutters as he lies on the lumpy, twin mattress, staring up at the ceiling for the third week. Night after night! He envisions a tiny adobe hut in the middle of the desert, the nearest tree miles away in downtown
. Sleeeep. I need sleep. He smashes the pillow against his face and waits for sunrise. Scottsdale
The coyotes howling at the moon jar him awake every night at 3am...
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